


No One Knows

by cryogenia, MadManta



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bad Parenting, Family Member Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Original Character(s), Suicide mention, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/pseuds/cryogenia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadManta/pseuds/MadManta
Summary: Reeve Tuesti is a professional therapist. He know what to expect when he gets his very first Turk client, Reno, who's only there on the insistence from his stoic partner.Reeve attempts to unravel a small issue Reno has, though in the process, he starts to unravel more than he expects.
Relationships: Reno/Rude (Compilation of FFVII)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 89





	1. Turnin' on the Screw

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU where Reeve isn't the director of urban planning. Cryo and I came up with this concept of a Turk therapist, and when it became "God I wish it were Reeve", suddenly the idea was borne. SO MUCH of the content of this fic is from Cryo's big brain, I'm just the one filling in the details in story form.
> 
> This fic also deals with Turks in Therapy. If you have issues w/ therapy, or issues with therapy sessions written with many artistic liberties taken, this may not be the fic for you.
> 
> I also would like to emphasize that this fic is definitely about RudeReno, but a lot of the POV will be from Reeve. He can't help getting invested. Can we blame him?

Dr. Reeve Tuesti, PhD, sits comfortably on his chair, pen and pad of paper placed on the table in front of him. He’s posed casually, dressed in a soft blue sweater and black khakis, a heavy watch on his right wrist. His reading glasses are tucked into the neck of his sweater and he’s trying to appear nonthreatening for this new client, who sits across from him looking like a slightly twitchy man from a vampire-themed night club.

The man had looked quite thin when Reeve first saw him, but now he sees how wrong that idea is. His shoulders are very broad, making a dramatic dip inwards on his waist. His dress shirt — expensive, but wrinkled and opened to half-way down his body — is carefully designed to show off maximum muscle and waxed-smooth flesh. His hair is unnatural and vibrant, both in its color and his _unique_ haircut. The only thing that really makes Reeve nervous about this man, whose knee hasn’t stopped moving since he sat down, is the fact that he also has a very shiny, very threatening rod in his left hand.

“Reno, right?” Reeve starts, leaning forward a bit. “Hate to start us off on the wrong foot, but I’m afraid we don’t allow weapons in here.”

Reno finally makes eye contact with him, and his eyes are an indeterminable color of blue (or green?) that seemed just as unnatural as his hair. He also looks pissed. “What!” he spits, clutching the thing to his chest like a kid to a teddy bear. “Look, I agreed to do this on my own terms and I ain’t going to sit alone in a room with a shrink in an unprotected room without proper protection!” He’s a fast talker, Reeve thinks, and even if the words leaving his mouth were loud and nasal, he was eloquent. And _a little_ terrifying.

“Do you always carry that with you?”

“I’m a Turk, ain’t I?”

 _That’s_ right, Reeve remembers. He had been given very little information about his latest client: he paid up front for three sessions, gave one name, and mentioned that he was a Turk and required complete and total discretion. Reeve would have been offended (of course he’d have total discretion, he was a professional) if he hadn’t been so intrigued by the concept of one of Shinra’s attack dogs coming in for therapy.

He hardly knows anything about them, other than unsubstantiated rumors that ranged from ‘I saw a Turk literally straight shoot a guy in between the eyes for badmouthing the VP’ to ‘I saw a Turk get so drunk he got on the counter and danced at Honeybee Inn.’

Looking at his client, Reno, he wonders if both those rumors were true, _and about him_.

Reeve’s eyes are soft as he watches the man fiddle with the rod, pushing it into itself. He keeps the strap attached to his wrist, but it seems like a peace offering. “I sent you an agreement that you signed, guaranteeing your complete privacy,” he says evenly. “And my safety. Did you read it?”

Reno exhales, head falling back. “Yeah, I read it. Sorry. I just wanted to see if I could get away with it.” His head pops up. “You don’t gotta worry about me, pal.”

“Next time,” Reeve says, and Reno nods. “Normally we have a lot more medical history to go over, but you claim most of that is confidential from Shinra.” Reno nods again. “Anything you want to tell me now? History of any serious illnesses, physical or otherwise?” Reno shakes his head. “History of drug abuse?” Reno scoffs, really shaking his head.

Reeve picks up the notepad then and lifts a brow at that reaction. “Well, then.” He watches Reno shift on the white couch, expensive shoes fidgeting on the rug. “What brings you in?”

“I saw this kid,” Reno says, and lets the strap of his rod fall off of his wrist so that he can stare at his hands. “And I wanna do something I shouldn’t, so I guess I’m here.”

Reeve’s mouth opens, then shuts. “I have to tell you, if you’re thinking of hurting a child, there’s parts in the agreement—”

“ _Fuck_ off!” Reno barks, and Reeve winces backwards. Reno folds his arms then, looking to the side in an embarrassed pout; maybe he hadn’t realized how loud his voice would sound in this room full of soft novelty pillows and bookshelves and several tuxedo cat stuffed animals. “I don’t wanna hurt the kid. It’s this whole… Thing.”

Reeve sticks his thumb into the notepad and closes it. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to give me a little bit more to work with. No judgment.” Reeve holds up both hands as a sign of surrender. Reno looks very closed off, and Reeve does have to try hard to not compare him to the very moody orange tabby he has at home. Thankfully Reeve has a sweet and passive disposition. He’s dealt with gangsters as much as he’s worked with long-life corporatists; a Turk just seems like a meeting in the middle of the two.

Reno is quiet for a long moment before his arms unfurl, moving up on the back of the couch. His head has tipped back again, voice pointed at the ceiling. “My partner and I have been in Junon for like four years. I haven’t been home, to Sector 4, since I was 16. He and I went there, to the slums, on some diddly little reconnaissance mission, and there was a kid there that looked… Like me.”

“Your partner?”

“Yeah, the Turks work in twos, if we can help it,” Reno clarifies.

Reeve scratches out ‘lover’ and writes in ‘colleague’. “Sorry, go on.”

“Well, I wanted to find out who the hell that kid is, obviously,” Reno says. He sits up, throwing his hands in his lap and his gaze at Reeve. “That’s not weird, right? I want to know what the hell some nine year old kid who looks like me is doing in Sector 4 and if.” He stops.

Reeve waits for him. Reno seems to be waiting for a push to force him to spit it out, but Reeve just waits, crossing his legs. Reno’s eyes flash up to his, and then down to the coffee table. There’s a set of little figures there: an orange tabby, a tuxedo, and a siamese. All soft plastic. The office is a physical manifestation of Reeve’s utter unthreatening demeanor.

Reno exhales. “If that kid’s related to me, I wanna know how. It’s been more than ten years, I know he’s not some love child of mine, that’s for sure.” His tone of voice is strange, like in any other company, he’d have tried to make a joke out of it.

“Do you have a strong connection to family?” Reeve asks.

Reno doesn’t look up from the cats. He’s very specifically not making eye contact, and Reeve gets that. Nobody wants that — that’s why there’s _things_ to fidget with that aren’t Shinra military grade battering staffs. Reno picks up the siamese cat. “Hell no,” he says. “My parents were junkies and…” His lips thin. “And that’s it.”

Reeve watches the other man’s body language. He’s fidgety _and_ closed off. Just talking about his family is flashing red flags — for the both of them. “So why are you here with me, instead of at that kid’s house right now?” Reeve asks, a tiny smile on his face.

Reno looks exasperated. “My fuckin’ partner sent me here.”

“Did he now?” Shinra perhaps wasn’t too bad if it was training Turks like this man’s partner.

“He was all like, ‘Calm the hell down,’ and like, ‘Maybe you should get some help instead of do something that’s gonna make you feel even more fucked up.’ What an asshole.”

Reeve hides his laugh in a wry expression instead. “And he meant, my kind of help.”

“Yeah. A fuckin’ shrink, really?” Reno finally makes eye contact and his eyes read sincere as he says, “Sorry, no offense. It’s just, that seems like the least helpful thing for someone like me. For any of us. Part of the job is being able to process heavy shit and then deal with said shit. Like, we’re iron-plated against this shit, what’s a therapist gonna do but worry about me?”

Reeve’s face is merely impassive, but he’s getting a kick out of this guy. He just shakes his head. “That’s what you paid me the big bucks for,” Reeve says. “Though if it makes you feel better, it seems like you can take care of yourself. I don’t think I’d worry about you so much as wonder.”

Reno huffs, and tosses the soft plastic cat back on the table with a tiny clatter.

“You _are_ the first Turk I’ve seen, but I’m not the only Shinra-approved therapist in Midgar,” Reeve says. “Who knows how many of them have their own therapists wondering after them? If that’s what you’re worried about.”

Reno picks at his nails, taps his knees, bounces his feet. Finally he throws himself out on the couch so that he’s laying down. This way he can stare at the ceiling more comfortably. Reeve averts his gaze so that Reno, trained in that sort of thing, wouldn’t feel the weight of his eyes.

“I wanna know what happened to my parents,” Reno says. “I want to know why the hell they’re breeding more after they couldn’t take care of two kids before. I want to… Make sure that kid doesn’t grow up like me, you know?”

Two kids, Reeve thinks. “You want to save this child?”

“I guess?” Reno says. “If you knew what those lazy fucks made me do…”

Reeve is almost playful when he says, “Well, we do have to fill up thirty minutes of time.”

“You really wanna know?” Reno asks.

Reeve is quiet for a moment so that his phrasing isn’t patronizing. “I’m here as a bit of a sounding board for you, Reno,” he starts. “I’m not here to tell you how you feel, or give you life advice. At least, not so soon. All I can really do is listen to you tell me what’s troubling you, and if you find yourself walking down one metaphorical memory road as you talk, that’s fine. It will help me understand the type of things you go through every day. Help understand your motivations, so that when you do ask me something that doesn’t have an obvious, definitive answer, I can craft one that is at least informed. The less you tell me, the less I can help.”

“Isn’t it a fuckin’ cliche to talk about your parents to a therapist?”

“Parents do leave a life-long impact on us, and that impact can be wonderful or it can be grave. And you’re here about a child that could very well belong to your parents.” Reeve taps his pen on the paper. “And are you watching bad therapist movies? Give me some recommendations, I love a good laugh.”

Reno is quiet a minute, but Reeve can see the tightness in his face ease. He doesn’t think Reeve is funny — and that’s okay, Reeve’s used to being called lame by edgy types who still value his help — but he’s seen some truth to Reeve’s words. That’s all he can ask.

“My parents never took care of us,” Reno says. “They were always high out of their fuckin’ mind on Warp. The low-grade shit, you know?” Reeve makes an affirmative sound; plenty of his clients have talked about exposure to the mako-laced drug. Bad for one’s teeth and daily responsibilities. Good for addiction and a good time. “I don’t even know how me and Junie lived as long as we did. Must have had neighbors taking care of us.”

“Junie?” Reeve asks.

Reno is quiet again. He folds his arms, gets closed off. Reeve waits.

“Juniper,” Reno says then, “was my sister.”

Reeve puts the pen down. He is a master of his craft and doesn’t show it, but he feels a strong pang in his gut. It has been thirty minutes and he’s already brought up a dead sibling. Mog, what had he gotten himself into?

Reno worries on his lower lip. “Anyway, the only real way for us to get by was for me to take on some fuckin’ responsibilities, so I thought about gettin’ a job. But growin’ up like we did, me and Junie were a lot better at uh… Less than honest work than we were at sweepin’ supply closets out for the local bodega, if you know what I mean.

“So after a while of bein’ a little more than obvious, I end up gettin’ caught red handed by this mad ugly dude with these,” and Reno laughs a little, almost hysteric, “ _stupid_ face tattoos. Like someone had slashed him on the face twice. And he hauled me up by the scruff of my vest and asked me how I was gonna pay for my stolen merchandise. I told him it was up his ass, he slammed me into a wall, I kicked him in the fuckin’ face, yadda yadda, I get a meeting with the fuckin’ Sahagin Princes.

“Well I bring Junie along, she’s only like a year younger than me, and they ain’t even mad at us. Mad impressed, I guess. So they bring us both on. Which would have been cool as hell if they hadn’t made a thirteen-year-old kid and her stupid fourteen-year-old brother get those… Dumb tattoos.”

Reno is quiet again for a long minute. There are a lot of pauses during his story, like a man wracking his brain for details he hadn’t thought about in years was trying to piece together something he’d forgotten about. Reeve takes a sip of his tea and almost misses Reno’s very quiet words: “I haven’t told anybody this stuff.”

“You don’t have to,” Reeve says.

“I think,” Reno says, eyes flashing over at Reeve. His eyes are heavy-lidded and sad, and sprawled out on his couch, he’s drop dead gorgeous. Reeve reminds himself what this man does for a living. He reminds _himself_ of what _he_ does. “I think I want to.”

Reeve clears his throat, takes another drink of tea, strangles his own meandering libido into submission. “By all means.” He puts the mug down.

“There isn’t a whole lot more to it. We both got in to the gang and suddenly we were gettin’ by a lot better. Well, we would have been, if my shitty fuckin’ parents hadn’t stolen from us. A lot. I learned we couldn’t keep groceries at home ‘cause they’d fuckin’ find them and _sell that shit_ for more Warp. After that first year we didn’t keep any Gil at home anywhere. No matter where we thought we’d hid it, they’d dig it out. Fuckin’ ghouls, man.

“We ate out most of the time, and honestly Junie and I ended up living with the gang after that first year. It was a little shady for her, but I had kind of a reputation as bein’ a little psychopath. Nobody got near Junie, though I did take my share of whoopings for doin’ stupid kid shit. Stealing from who I shouldn’t have been. Showin’ off when I shouldn’t have been. I liked to think they were toughening me up.

“After two years, things started to change, there was this… Power grab. Hell, I don’t even remember what caused it all, other than how the big dicks in charge started to look at territory differently, or maybe it was the merchandise. I don’t know. All I remember is…” Reno’s mouth goes dry, his words rasping to nothing. Reeve looks over at him in concern, half expecting him to burst into tears. There’s tissue box next to the plastic cats. Reno doesn’t reach for it, he simply seems to croak for a soft moment. He’s fighting himself. His pretty eyes are misty. Finally, some real words: “I can’t.”

Reeve reaches down under the table next to him. There’s a mini fridge, and he pulls out a sweating, cold water bottle. He gets up, leaning over to hand it to Reno. “You’ve already said a lot,” Reeve says. Reno doesn’t seem to notice him at first, and then when he sees the bottle, he nearly flinches a solid three inches. Reeve’s eyebrows draw up. “Sorry.”

Reno takes the water, sitting up as he cracks it open. He looks at the tissue box, blinking his eyes rapidly before taking a long drink. “It’s fine, I can keep goin’.”

“Genuinely, we can stop,” Reeve says. He sits back down. “I expected that as a Turk, you’d have a lot of feelings about what you do and how to ‘deal with it’. You brought it up yourself, why would a Turk come here when it’s part of the job to compartmentalize?” Reno doesn’t look at him. “But you’ve got a lot more going on and you said you’ve never told anyone until now.”

“Yeah,” Reno says. He sounds a little better with the water.

“As much as we like to think ripping the bandaid off all at once is the answer, it’s not as easy for stuff like this. The whole reason you compartmentalize is to keep your mind as solid as you can. The second you start pulling at scar tissue and poking around in there without proper medical attention…”

“I get it,” Reno says, and then chugs the rest of the water. “And I mean, whatever. The whole reason I’m here is so that Rude thinks I’m takin’ his advice.”

Reeve raises an eyebrow. “Rude?”

“My partner,” Reno says again. “I just don’t want him to think I’m stupid and stubborn. So I’m takin’ his fuckin’ advice and tellin’ some scruffy stranger shit I haven’t thought about for a decade.” He glances up at Reeve and the mask falls in place as a sly smirk lights up his face. “Sorry, I guess you’re pretty well groomed.”

Reeve is great at hiding sadness, anger, happiness, but he can’t stop his cheeks from flushing at that. “Nevertheless,” he said. “You are quite the storyteller, Reno. We went over time. It’s important to try and stick to our one hour—”

“Oh, shit!” Reno says, pulling out his phone. “Did I talk that long? Fuck.”

Reeve’s mouth tips up on one corner. “It was pretty compelling.”

“Still! I’ll do better next time. Did I fuck up somebody else’s appointment?”

Reeve shakes his head. “It’s no trouble, you were my last for the day. I normally close up at five—”

“I kept you here _after hours_? Fuck.” Reno grabs the rod by the wrist strap, sliding it back on. “I swear, that won’t happen again.”

Reeve tips his head, intrigued by this man. “It’s only twenty minutes, and it’s expected for a newcomer with a lot—”

“Thanks for your time. Two weeks I’ll be back, right?”

“Yes, but, wait. Can I offer you a bit of homework?”

Reno eyes him suspiciously. “Is this going to take more of your off-hours time?”

“Ten minutes. Come on, it’ll be for your own good.”

Reno huffs, knees spreading, hands landing on his thighs; he’s more open to it, now. Reeve nods. “The next time you think about going out and looking for that kid, I’d like you to try to ground yourself. I have some techniques you could try. You can think of it as a basic way to distract yourself from those thoughts.”

“Is it thinkin’ about sex?”

Reeve ignores him, but there’s a smile in his voice when he says, “Close your eyes.” Reno does. “The easiest one to just stop and do is to think about your physical being. Make a little checklist of your whole body. Think about your head, your posture. Do you have a headache? Is your neck a little sore? How are your shoulders, your arms? Fingers? All the way down to your toes. Focus on where you are, here and now.”

Reno is quiet for a moment, and then opens one eye. “Am I s’posed to be doing it right now?”

Reeve sighs out a laugh. “Okay, maybe we’ll try that one next time. This one may be a bit easier. Picture a place.”

“What kinda place?”

“Your favorite place to be on a Friday night, that makes you feel safe.”

Reno is quiet, and then his eyebrows draw up. “Got it.”

“Just think about that place. Think about all the textures, the sounds you might hear. When was the last time you were there? Who were you with?”

Reno’s shoulders go a little slack. It looks like he’s filling out a whole memory in his mind.

Reeve waits until Reno’s breath looks sweet and even before he quietly begins, “A grounding exercise like this can help bring is back from the brink of hysteria, or a bad decision.” Reno’s eyes slowly open. “And if all else fails, you can count backwards from 100.”

Reno stands up then. “This ain’t anger management, right?”

Reeve just spreads his hands, infuriatingly vague. “It’s whatever you make out of it, Reno.”

Reno rolls his eyes, circling around the couch. “Two weeks. And I’ll see about that overtime, Tuesti.”

Reeve just laughs as the Turk disappears out of the office, and then leans his head back against the chair. Mog, he was going to need to watch his ass for this assignment. The last thing he wants to do was upset a Turk. Or worse, he thinks wryly, a Turk’s close partner.

He quickly stuffs his messenger bag with his notes and gathers his keys. He has cats to feed.


	2. Head Like a Haunted House

Reno huffs as he drags the last body into the pile, wiping his hands off on his jacket with a frown. “I took your advice, you know.”

Rude doesn’t even look at him as he continues to pour gas in a jagged line around the perimeter of the terrorist den. “What’s that?”

Reno stretches his arms above his head to release the tension in his back, and then pats himself down for cigarettes. Rude comes up behind him, flicking one out of his expensive metal case. Reno takes it with a smirk. “You told me to go get some help, so I found a therapist.” Rude stares at him in mild surprise even as Rude lights the cigarette with a soft flash of fire magic, and then lights his own. “Seems like a waste of time.”

They step away from the highly flammable area and Rude still seems to be grappling with what Reno has said. “You… Went to therapy?”

“Yeah. All he did was listen to me blabber on about stuff I haven’t thought about in years, and tell me to think about your apartment.”

Rude just stares at him as he blows out a puff of smoke. “What?”

“He called it… Shit, what’d he call it? Gratifying?”

Rude’s mouth is wavering around the cigarette.

“Grouping…”

Rude is looking at him like he doesn’t believe him for a second.

“Grounding! That’s it. Grounding exercises. And he was all, think of your favorite place on a Friday.” Reno rolls his eyes as he sucks on the cigarette. “The hell is the point of that, you know?”

Rude is quiet again, so Reno looks up at him. Rude is staring at him. Reno waves a hand in front of his face. “Hey, earth to Bald n Brash. You in there?”

“Yeah,” Rude says, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “I’m just proud of you, is all.”

Reno scoffs, stepping away from him again. “Don’t think it’s gonna do much. But now you know that I ain’t stupid and I _do_ listen.”

Rude is quiet, but Reno can hear the sharp, long inhale of too-much-tobacco. The soft _twip_ of a cigarette being flicked out of fingers. The explosive roar of the gasoline catching fire. Rude walks up to him, exhaling the cloud as he does. “Never thought you were,” he says. “Never thought that you didn’t.”

Reno glances behind himself at Rude’s somber face and the sight of their target going up in flames. He turns back towards the street, and chooses to believe the heat on his face is from the flames and not from Rude’s stupid sincerity.

“Still seems like a waste of time,” Reno says, and throws his cigarette to the ground. “Let’s get burgers.”

* * *

Reno stares as the train leaves the station in the Sector 4 slums. He’s back. It’s weird, he doesn’t exactly remember getting on the train and when the stop came, he couldn’t help but get off.

He stares in the direction that he saw the kid, the last time and his feet move without him realizing he’s doing it.

_What are you doing, idiot? Why are you here?_

_Rude’s black leather sofa. The throw blanket that’s chenille soft but covered in little fabric pills._

_Hey! You in there? Stop moving! This is the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing._

_The sound of Rude’s soft laugh, indulging at Reno’s joke. The sound of two beer bottles fizzing open. It’s cold in his hand, the wrapper under his thumb familiar and nubbly. It smells like the takeout they’ve already finished eating. Rude took off his tie and suit jacket, but nothing else. He always leaves the gloves, the glasses, on._

Reno stops. He’s walked at least a kilometer without realizing it. _Shit_ , he thinks, and glances around. What the hell is he doing here? And then he sees what he’s not supposed to see again: a mop of boring dark brown hair in a sea of heads, but this one has a stupid, familiar cowlick. The kid has a little rat face. Bright blue eyes.

It’s the kid.

_Shit. I’m not supposed to be here. Shit. What the hell did I do? 100._

He watches the kid, frozen in place. The kid waves at his dumb little friends, and runs off in another direction, down the street. His legs are moving again.

_99\. 98. 97. 96._

Every number he counts down, his foot takes another step. He’s doing it wrong. He knows he is. He rounds the corner and watches the kid disappear into a very specific house. He memorizes the house number. 4803.

He turns around and runs back to the station, trying to turn his damn brain off. _79-78-77-76-75-74-fuck-fuck-fuck_.

* * *

Reeve is pleasantly surprised when Reno arrives promptly at 4 PM, the only thing on his person his enormous Shinra-branded PHS. “Hi, Dr. Tuesti,” Reno says, and Reeve is charmed that the man seems to have grown some manners in the past two weeks.

“Welcome, Reno,” he says. Reno does leap over the couch like a teenager might, but places his phone on the counter delicately.

“How long did we go over, last time? Twenty five minutes?”

Reeve feels a prickle of annoyance at this, again. “Yes, but honestly, don’t worry—”

“Nah, man,” Reno says, shaking his head. “You’re not workin’ for free. We’ll cut that time out from today. Then you’ll get paid until 5 but not have to work for it. Evens out, right? You gotta look out for yourself, man, you can’t let some numbskull take advantage of you ‘cause he doesn’t know jack diddly about how therapizing works.”

Reeve sighs, relenting, even though some of those words didn’t exactly make sense. “If you think that’s what’s best for you,” Reeve says somewhat blandly. Reno throws himself back on the couch and is quiet, so Reeve tries to get things started. “How’d some of those basic grounding techniques work?”

Oddly, Reno is still quiet, but his lips are working. He’s pressing his lips hard, biting them. He huffs. “Think I’m doin’ it wrong.”

Reeve feels a sense of accomplishment and relief hit him that the man bothered at all. “Understandable. I threw that at the last second.” His head tips. “How are you using it?”

“I don’t…” Reno opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. He’s frowning. “Can I tell you the truth?”

A short laugh comes out of Reeve and Reno glares at him. Reeve holds up his hands. “Sorry! I just, that’s kind of. That’s kind of the point. I told you, I’m not here to judge you. I’d like to hear you tell me the truth as often as you’re able.”

“I lost track of time,” Reno says, eyes shutting again. “And I went back to Sector 4.”

Reeve glances at his notes; that’s where he found the kid before. He writes ‘disassoc??’. “What happened then?”

“I realized where I was,” Reno says. “Like, the whole time I was on the train I didn’t even think about it, but then I step off the train and immediately my brain kicks into gear like hey, you fuckin’ idiot, what the hell are you doing? And I panicked, and just…stopped to think about uh. The place.”

Reeve nods. “That’s good, though. You knew you were in a dangerous spot, and the first thing you did was try to calm yourself down by thinking of your happy place.”

Reno’s lips turn into a scowl. “Tsch, do you have to call it that?”

“Is ‘comfort zone’ better?”

“Happy place is fine,” Reno utters, letting out a sigh of defeat. “Anyway it didn’t matter. I thought about it and then my feet just kept taking me places. I walked like half a mile before…” He swallows. “I saw the kid. _The_ kid.”

Reeve leans forward a little, intrigued as well as worried. “And then?”

Reno looks embarrassed. “I started c-counting backwards from 100.”

Reeve watches him carefully. “But you followed him anyway, while you were counting.”

“I couldn’t help it. I’m almost impressed, you know? I’m screaming at myself _and_ counting _and_ hunting this kid. Like I’m on three fuckin’ levels of consciousness, and then I. I saw him go into a house. And I freaked, and ran.”

Reeve underlines the word he’d written earlier. “Is everything alright, now?”

Reno lets out a confused breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Anything bad happen from this? Besides the impulsive desire to follow him.”

“No.”

“Did you tell your partner?”

Reno hesitates. He’s ashamed, again. “No.”

“As far as grounding techniques go, I’m pretty proud of you,” Reeve says. “You were perfectly aware something was wrong, and did your best to stop it. But it was my fault for not entirely explaining that maybe in this instance, it would be about getting yourself to a place where you know you won’t just follow those impulsive—often negative—feelings.” He offers a sad smile, audible in his tone. “You’re adaptive as all hell, trying to use a tool that can take months to properly hone in and thinking it’d save you from something that is clearly gnawing at you.”

Reno stares at the ceiling; he’s rubbing his back into the couch, like he’s trying to hide from words that sound suspiciously like praise. “So what?”

“You did good,” Reeve says simply. “Let’s try it now, together. How about that?” Reno agrees, and Reeve walks him through it: _Close your eyes. Think about your mind like a security control room. Every different TV is showing a different line of thought, ever changing. Try turning off all these other feeds,_ and Reno interrupts him softly to say, “You can’t just turn off a security feed, Tuesti,” and Reeve laughs and continues: _but you can focus in on one. If you stop focusing on one, that’s okay. Let the other thought finish, and then let it go. Let the other TVs fade from view. Let the static buzz disappear. How is your head? How does it feel? Do you have a headache? Be present in your body — focus on the physicality, rather than those hundreds of security cameras thinking about yesterday’s lunch or tomorrow’s meeting. Now, onto the shoulders…_

After ten minutes, Reno has sunk into the couch with proper ease. He’d kicked off his shoes before, and now his long slender toes curl in their black socks. His eyes open, half lidded. “Is that what it’s supposed to do?”

Reeve indulges a smile in him. “Guiding always makes it a little easier. How do you feel?”

“Honestly, a little tired. But less… bad.”

“I’m sorry I sent you out there thinking you had protection in a mental exercise,” Reeve says, and he does sound apologetic. “Starting a session with you like this is best. Helps remind you of where you are, _how_ you are. Let’s talk about why you did what you did.”

“I told you, I didn’t even really…” Reno’s fingers clench in those over-the-top fingerless gloves. “I just did it. It wasn’t like, a smart thing.”

Reeve is quiet, puzzling over this man: a trained killer who’s just admitted he stalked a kid to his house, and then panicked and ran away. It wasn’t necessarily textbook predator material, but it was certainly a sign of Reno putting someone else in potential danger. He would have to tread carefully so as to not upset a Turk.

Reeve cards a hand through his own hair. “You saw him go into a house?”

“Mm.”

“Was it clean?”

A long pause, and then, “Mm.”

“Did he seem unhappy?”

Quicker this time: “Mm-mm,” a negative.

“Knowing that the kid is happy and living in a clean home,” Reeve begins, “do you still want to know?”

He doesn’t fidget, but he seems helpless. He’s just so genuinely uncomfortable at this question, Reeve feels bad for pushing too hard. “That’s my family, man,” Reno says and his voice is almost a squeak.

“What do you want to find out?”

Reno’s fingers drum on his bare chest. He sighs. “Guess I wanna know if my piece a’ shit parents went off and had a some replacement family after Junie died and I vanished, and I wanna make sure this kid isn’t gonna get all fucked up like I ended up.”

Reeve watches him carefully. Reno has gone quiet again, his hand laying flat on his skin. Reeve can tell the man’s mind is starting to spin back up again. “You want a water?” No response. “Soda?” No response. “I might have a canned coffee.” Reno glances over at him, and Reeve grins. He pulls the last canned coffee out of his mini fridge and tosses it at Reno, who catches it without a second thought.

“You know, you came here first because your partner told you to,” Reeve says. “And I think you were fully aware that this decision was made _by you_ , not by him. He gave you that push and you found me right afterward.” Reno sits up and pops the tab on his coffee, not looking up at him. “I think you’re more interested in dealing with this issue than you let on, and you genuinely want some help.”

Reno takes a noisy slurp from his coffee.

“Let’s set aside your _light stalking_ as the issue,” Reeve says, his expression almost wry. “Can you honestly tell me what the most frightening part of this experience was?”

Reno’s eyes are back on those plastic cats. His knuckles are turning white. The can creaks. “Losin’ it,” he whispers. “When I realized what I’d done and just. Lost it. Ran straight back to the train station.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “I mean, what the hell, right? When you’re a Turk, you can’t just flip out. If you do, your helicopter goes sideways. If you do, your partner dies. You’re supposed to be on, one hundred percent of the time.” He takes a long drink of the coffee.

Reeve feels an irritating surge of disgust at the description of the job; no man should have to feel this way about a damn salary. “But you weren’t on.”

Reno’s eyes seem blank as he smiles out his words, “Full on screws loose, doc.”

“Maybe instead of focusing on this kid, which just seems to be a branch of an issue, we maybe start looking at the core of your issues.”

“If you’re gonna tell me to quit my job and become a chocobo farmer, you’re gonna be real disappointed—”

“The last thing I’m going to do is tell a Turk to not do his job,” Reeve says. “You’re way too intimidating for that.” Reno looks up at him then, and Reeve flashes him a timid smile. Reno’s lips spread into a toothy smirk, and Reeve feels a bit of relief. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I think that a job like yours is going to bring out a lot of potential trauma. Compartmentalized shit, as you said before.” Reno looks proud that ‘oooh I made the doc swear’. “What I’d like to do is help you come up with a more healthy way to deal with this exposure to trauma. That doesn’t necessarily mean you telling me your life story — you don’t ever have to tell me a thing you don’t want to. But I can listen to whatever it is you need to tell me. I mean, when was the last time you really complained about the things you have to do to anyone who wasn’t your partner?”

Reno thinks on this. “Probably never? Nobody knows what we do and lives.”

Reeve chooses to not feel intimidated by this. Or tries. He forces his own knee to stop bouncing. “Well, I can’t tell a soul about anything that happens in here, so…”

“You just wanna hear juicy Turk deets.”

“I’ve gotta be honest with you here, Reno,” Reeve says, and his face is purely emotive, the mask gone. “I’m scared shitless of ‘juicy Turk deets’.”

Reno pauses, and then bursts out laughing, falling back against the couch. The chuckles peter out until it’s just his shoulders softly shuddering. “You swear this shit is confidential. If I hear shit from Tseng about,” and his hands gesture, “any of this.” He finishes the coffee.

Reeve shakes his head. “I have no idea who that is.”

Reno’s face seems to open up then, like a light is starting to shine out of him, and then his phone bursts into _Fanfare_ music as his alarm goes off. “Oh, damn! That went by fast.”

“Well, it is half the allotted time,” Reeve says, frowning. “Are you sure you want to leave? I think there’s a lot of exercises I could help you work on—”

“Value your time, doc!” Reno says, and shuts the phone’s alarm off. “I’ll be back in two weeks.”

“In one piece, I hope,” Reeve adds.

Reno rolls his eyes. “You never know. We’ll get the full time in for that final session, I promise.” Reno salutes him with the phone and then slips out of his office again. Reeve instead starts writing like a madman. Reno, obsessed with fighting for the little guy on overtime. Disassociating with a familial situation. Privacy concerns and paranoia. Fierce loyalty and desire to make his partner proud. PTSD to the literal definition.

This is _way_ above his pay grade and he knows it, but for some reason, he’s hoping he can make a difference for this strangely sympathetic hit man.


	3. In My Head

Reno can feel Rude’s eyes on him. It doesn’t matter if he’s got sunglasses on, or that it’s the middle of the night. Reno knows, and he hates it. He wipes the blood off of his magrod on the body under his foot. He’d spaced for a second and nearly caught the butt end of a rifle to the face. At the last second he’d ducked, swooped around and kicked the guy hard into the ground before cracking him open like a party favor, but it was still sloppy.

He’s been sloppy a _lot_ lately, and Rude has started to catch on.

It doesn’t _really_ matter. Reno had been taking a few more hits than he usually would, but with Cures, Potions, and rest he was always back to … well, ninety percent. Maybe lower. The more frequent usage had lowered their potency, and Reno’s definition of ‘rest’ was usually two hours on the Turks’ sofa or passed out in his own apartment surrounded by beer cans.

Sometimes he’d take a Potion and wouldn’t feel any better, but he hasn’t told anyone about that. The last thing he wants is to be considered an anomaly for Hojo to take apart. It’s bad enough he’s letting a damn therapist pick his brain apart while Reno’s awake.

“Is that the last of them?” Reno huffs, stretching his arms above his head. “Corneo ain’t gonna ignore our requests, next time.”

Rude grunts in affirmation, and then Reno hears the sharp foot steps. Here it comes, and he rolls his eyes as he turns to face his stoic partner. “High five on a job well done, right, partner?”

Rude stares down at him. “I don’t think it was a job well done.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Reno says, and gestures all around them. “Tell me, who got away? Who saw our faces?” There are bodies littering the ground and not a sound from anywhere. “In my professional opinion, I deserve a big fat gold star.”

“You’re bleeding,” Rude says.

“My body does exist in a flesh prison, it’s true,” Reno wheedles, and Rude actually frowns at him. Real, genuine forehead wrinkles, and lines at the edge of his mouth. Reno is a little taken aback by this. “You say this like you don’t have bruises on your own damn face.”

“Am I _actively bleeding_?” Rude says, an irritated titch in his voice. He yanks the silk pocket square out of his jacket and presses it to a particularly warm spot on Reno’s head. Reno hisses involuntarily, and looks as Rude pulls the silk away to show him it’s dark crimson. “What the hell are you doing, Reno?” 

“Just Cure me already,” Reno says, folding his arms.

“That’s just it, huh?” Rude replies, turning away from him. Reno doesn’t need to see him to tell that his jaw is clenching. “Just throw yourself in harm’s way ‘cause Rude will just patch you up.”

“Uh, doy?” Reno replies. “When have you _not_ done that?”

Rude’s fist clenches. He’s quiet and stewing. He only really gets this way when shit has gone really bad. But nothing is bad, other than how Reno can feel the warm ooze of blood tickling down the side of his head.

“Uh, Rude?”

More silence, and then the familiar sound of Cure. The uncomfortable feeling of wounds closing, and still yet more blood. “Can I get that kerchief again? Since you ruined it with my blood already.”

Rude turns and balls it up, throwing it at Reno’s face. Reno catches it with a wry grin. “Quiet _and_ sassy,” he says, wiping at the now closed injury. His hand gets wet through the pocket square.

“Why are you trying to self destruct?” Rude asks. He won’t look at Reno now, and Reno’s almost glad for it. He’s never dealt with Rude like this and personally, he can’t stand it. He’s annoying as hell, bitching over nothing that has any merit. “You never acted this reckless before.”

“You’re nuts,” Reno laughs. “You’ve fought at my side for years. _Years_. You know how I operate. The whole point of my style is to go in head first, Rude.”

“But you never _landed_ on your head before,” Rude hisses, and flips to point at him accusingly. “Now you’d rather dive in and crack your fucking neck before we get anything done. You literally threw yourself at a guy with a knife. Tonight! And that’s not even what your head wound was from!”

Reno feels his hackles rising in irritation that Rude is _lecturing him_ about safety. “Fuck off, grandma,” Reno hisses. “I get the job done, and I get it done fast. Any hit I get is superficial at best. And yeah, _sorry_ , but part of our partnership is you patching me up. You agreed to that shit. You carry Cure around with you. You could Curaga my ass if you really had to. So what’s the fucking problem?”

“The _problem_ is that you’re taking more and more hits every mission,” Rude says, his voice deadly serious. “What the hell am I gonna do if you get your dumb ass blown up? Or your jugular cut? Curaga won’t be able to do much if you bleed out before I can get over to you, or pick all your damn pieces up.”

“So you think I’m a fuckup,” Reno says, voice rising. “That I can’t handle my own shit so you’re yelling at me to handle it better. You don’t wanna back me up on shit, huh?”

“All I _do_ is back you up,” Rude growls. “I have to focus on you more than the damn opponents so I can keep them from bum rushing you. I only take out the guys that are running at you now, you know that?”

“So _you’re_ fighting out of formation!” Reno says. “And you’re blaming _me_ for fucking up? When you’re just doing unpredictable bullshit?”

“I’ve never had to before!” Rude says. “You can’t keep your damn focus for more than two minutes!”

“Ex _cuse me_ , princess!” Reno roars. “I have a lot of shit going on in my life, Rude, and sometimes I space out, but it’s never been a grave mistake. You’re just calling me a fucking failure, now, and I don’t _appreciate that shit_ , partner.”

Rude stares at him for a long moment, and Reno is expecting him to just huff and concede. Instead, Rude just shakes his head. “Go fuck yourself, Reno,” he says, and _does_ huff as he walks out of the building.

“Go—go fuck _my_ self!?” Reno stutters, staring at Rude’s retreating form. “Go fuck _your_ self, asshole! Fuckin granny-ass bitch!” Rude doesn’t even acknowledge it, like he’s tuned him out, and Reno lets out a laugh of disbelief that chokes back up into his throat. The back of his tongue burns.

He chokes out a soft curse. Work’s going to be uncomfortable tomorrow, now that they’ve had a tiff. Normally Rude never lost his cool; and even when he did, it burned hot and fast and then died out like a sparkler.

This Rude was angry and cold, and it made Reno’s gut tighten nervously. But he fights down the queasy feeling and stomps straight out to a local dive bar. At least he’ll have plenty to talk to his therapist about for his final session. With Rude being pissed off at him, he doesn’t have a damn thing to prove any more.

* * *

Reeve didn’t want to seem like he was picking favorites, but he _was_ sure to refill the canned coffees before the Turk’s appointment. Reeve wants to think they’ve made a lot of progress, but that’s not true in the slightest. The first session, Reno arrived late and was a tough nut to crack; the second, he was sweet as cake and self deprecating. Reeve had learned some depressing things, but beyond that, it was mostly about feeling each other out.

He’s sure that this appointment will be the most helpful. A breakthrough might convince him to stick around a little longer than the trial period he’d initially decided on.

The Turk who enters his office at 4 PM is the same one from the first appointment, only he doesn’t have his weapon. He’s grumbling and heavy-eyed and looks like he might have been sick all day.

“Reno,” Reeve says with a gentle smile. “Good to see you again. Can I offer you a coffee? Water?”

Reno stares at him for a long moment and then descends on the couch, whose pillows Reeve had just fluffed minutes before. (Okay — maybe he was playing favorites _a little_ bit.) “Canned coffee?” he asks, and Reeve’s smile grows a bit broader as he hands him the item. “Thanks.”

“So,” Reeve begins, easing back into his chair. Reno doesn’t say anything else, just stares at the unopened coffee. Reeve fidgets. “How are things?”

Reno huffs out an unpleasant smile. “Peachy,” he says, and finally pops the tab on his drink. He sits and slurps for a few minutes, and Reeve watches his eyes squeeze shut, his adam’s apple bob with a cleared throat.

Reeve wets his lip. “Any new incidents?” he asks.

“Nope,” Reno says rudely. “Sharp as a tack.” His eyes are back on the plastic cats on the coffee table and Reeve suddenly worries for them, as though Reno’s gaze alone is destructive. But Reno just closes his eyes and leans back into the couch, fingertips precariously clutching the rim of the coffee.

“Have you done any more of the ah, focusing exercises?” Reeve asks.

“Do you think I’m reckless, doc?” Reno asks. His eyes open and they are scary when their aquamarine intensity is focused directly at Reeve.

Reeve has to break the eye contact. “I’ve only talked to you for two hours. Total,” Reeve says. “But in that time, it seems like the only time you’re reckless is when you’re not completely in control of what you’re doing.”

“Pff,” Reno says, and crushes the now empty can in his hand. He tosses it on the table, where it knocks over the tuxedo cat figurine. “Can you put that in a letter? Give it to my fuckin’ partner?”

Reeve can’t help it: he raises an eyebrow sharply. “Is he your boss?”

“Hell no,” Reno spits. “I’m technically his superior. Okay, well, no. I outrank him. But still.”

Reeve lets the conversation roll naturally in an act of selfishness. He wants to hear more about the dynamic between this unique man and the man he works with. Who apparently has enough of an influence over Reno to get him to come to appointments like this.

“Does it matter if he thinks you’re reckless, then?” Reeve supplies.

“Yes, obviously!” Reno growls, and then folds his arms. He’s hiding. “Well, no. It doesn’t really. Other than the fact that I have to work with him constantly, and he’s being a little bitch.”

Reeve doesn’t even pick up his notebook. “You work together, he’s calling you reckless…” He tilts his head. “I would never ask what you _do_ , Reno, but…” Reno sucks at his teeth loudly, but Reeve pushes on through. “You doing things to make him worried?”

“What’s he got to worry about?” Reno sniffs with irritation. “We get the job done, one hundred and ten percent of the time. The higher ups are off our asses. All he has to do is throw a damn Potion or cast a Cure my way when I scrape my knee.”

Reeve’s eyes flicker down to Reno’s knees. His pants are immaculate, somehow, other than the hems; similar to his jacket, in mostly good condition other than the frayed ends. “You’re the muscle, he’s the mage?” Reeve asks.

Reno laughs out loud. His canines are sharp and positioned a little awkwardly, just short of being snaggletoothed. Reno has a kind of weaselly attractiveness that Reeve finds disarming. “He’s the tank,” Reno says and spreads his hands. “I’m more like… The bomb.”

Reeve indulges him. “You seem awfully nimble and sharp for a bomb.”

“Whatever, man,” Reno says, though he looks flattered as he stares out at the window. “Either way, he’s got more… Going on. He can take a lot more hits and can heal us. And I can lay out a lot more damage. Which I usually do, head first.”

Reeve hums thoughtfully. “So your fighting style is more prone to danger.”

“It’s not that,” Reno says, and then pauses. He draws his feet up under him and starts picking at his — still completely unscuffed — knees. “We normally work perfectly in sync, you know? It’s always been like that. We always have each other’s backs. He just usually can handle a bit more of a beating than me, so he can usually choke down a Potion while I’m more on the receiving end of magic. It works just fine.”

“But lately…” Reeve starts.

“Lately he has to protect me a little more,” Reno says. It comes out as a scoff. “Like it’s so hard to watch my back for an extra two seconds.”

“He’s slacking on you?” Reeve asks.

“No!” Reno says immediately, and looks embarrassed. “I’m just…” He breathes out a thin stream of air. “You remember. Last time. I said we had to be on a hundred percent of the time. ‘Cause we do. But… I haven’t been.” He sighs. “I’m doing fine, obviously, I just keep thinking about. The thing I don’t need to think about, and then bam yo, the next thing you know there’s a knife an inch above your ear.”

Reeve doesn’t say anything. He’s mostly trying to school his own facial expression. He might like to meet this partner and ask him how he’s kept Reno alive for this long. “Tell me more about him,” Reeve says, trying to get out of the potential scenario where he has to explain just _how_ reckless Reno is.

“Like what? He’s not here,” Reno chuckles. “He’s big, bald and black. What else you want?”

Reeve tries not to get flustered. “I mean, is he a man of routines? Has your own mental disruptions been… A disruption for him as well?”

Reno’s smile drops and he sighs. He grabs a pillow from the couch and clutches it to his chest so that he’s squeezing it instead of his own squeaky fingers. “Sure. He probably keeps a damn day planner.” He frowns. “But you have to be spontaneous to fight.”

“Practiced, I thought,” Reeve says. “Anticipatory.”

“Yes, and you should _anticipate_ what I’m going to _spontaneously_ do,” Reno says. “It ain’t that hard. At least, not when you’ve been doing it together for so long. It’s like… Uhh…” Reno looks at Reeve like he’s trying to decide what Reeve is capable of. “It’s like dancin’. Or fuckin’, I guess. If you know your partner well enough, if one of us missteps, it’s pretty easy to correct the course.”

“In those scenarios, I’d think someone is usually leading,” Reeve says. “Do you lead?”

“I _should_ be leadin’. That’s why I go first. He’s just been fighting me on it.” Reno huffs, tosses the pillow aside. “He’s so damn ungrateful. My ass is fallin’ apart and all he has to do is patch me up once or twice a week. He’s lucky he’s got such a competent partner even while I’m dealing with…” He gestures around himself. “All of this shit! Fucking, head shrinking and a mystery brother and, I don’t know. Chemical imbalances.”

“What could he do, do you think?” Reeve asks. “To make it easier on you.”

“I don’t know! He could shut the fuck up, maybe!” Reno says, folding his arms. “He could trust me to deal with my own shit. He knows I’m tough. I’m not gonna snap under pressure for fuck’s sake.” Reno looks up at Reeve then, and his eyes look sad and soft in comparison to the angry words slipping out.

“And? Is there anything you could do?” Reeve asks, leaning forward on his knees. “To help reassure him that you’re a professional. Not behaving ‘recklessly’ as he might think.”

Reno’s mouth works, and then his eyebrows draw down. “I came to fuckin’ therapy for him. I’ve done plenty, _thanks_.” Reno glances around. “Is it time yet? Can I fuckin’ get out of here? This clearly ain’t helpin’ my stupid ass.”

Reeve looks hurt despite himself. “You’re not _stupid_ , Reno. You’re clearly going through some deep emotional upheaval, and when your own partner—”

“Yeah, yeah, he sucks but so does my situation,” Reno says, and stands up. “I think I’ve had enough.”

Reeve sighs. “If you finish out the session, then you’ll have proved to him utterly that you value his opinion,” he says. “Then you can walk out of here. You don’t have to bother with this any more.”

Reno looks uncomfortable, tightly grasping his own upper arms. “Why would I stay?”

“I think you are more worried about your well being than your partner is,” Reeve says, trying to soothe. “And you’re worried that if _you_ misstep, it’s him that will be in trouble, not you. So you’re taking it out on him.”

Reno’s eyes widen for an instant, and then they narrow down. “You think I’m gonna get him killed, doc?”

“That is _not_ what I said, Reno,” Reeve says quickly.

“Bullshit,” Reno says, and stomps to the door. “None of you think I’m capable of doin’ my job. Un-fuckin’-believable.” It slams shut behind him as he leaves.

“Shit,” Reeve says out loud, looking at his watch. He didn’t even get the full session. He pulls out the notebook again and, even if Reno never shows up again, he might as well get his notes in. There was no point in getting him to stay; he would need to want that for himself.

Reeve sinks back into his seat and hopes Reno will stumble in through that door in two weeks anyway.


	4. The Blood is Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for depressing bullshit and casual suicide feelings (without any actual ones).

The thing about what Reno’s doing is that he is one hundred percent conscious of his choices.

Rude thinks he’s falling apart, and Reeve thinks Reno’s doing it on purpose. The both of them can get fucked. Reno needs to see the kid's face. Needs to see his parents. Needs to yell at them. Shake them. Ask them ‘why’. Something.

He may also be slightly _manic_ right now but he’s choosing not to think about his task as being anything other than what a perfectly rational human being would do. He remembers every footstep onto the train station and every security check point as he arrives in the slums. He recognizes the old food trucks and dilapidated buildings, and he remembers the house number.

And then, when Reno is a hundred feet from gaining this closure that’s ached in his gut for more than half his life, he doesn’t know what to do.

He can’t just storm up to the door. What if only one of his parents is still alive? What if the living one got remarried, and whoever answers that door is some new stranger? What if they just… Told him to go away and not return, before he got the chance to get his answers?

Reno parks himself on a resting bench and rests his head in hands while he toils over what he’s supposed to do. The worst part is that he wants to make a phone call. He wants to hear Rude’s angry voice over the PHS, demanding where he is and to tell him to stop before he does something he’ll regret.

He just wants to hear Rude tell him ‘no’ so it’s easier to tell _himself_ ‘yes’.

“Whatever,” Reno says, standing up and tugging on his jacket. He doesn’t need Rude’s approval — or disapproval, more specifically — to live his damn life. He mostly just wants to make sure that stupid child is eating well and that his parents aren’t actively screwing up a new generation of slum kids.

He sees a light flicker behind mostly broken blinds in the window. He’s been staring. He knows someone is home. Hell, maybe it’s just the kid. Maybe Reno can manipulate the kid with a candy bar or something. He swears under his breath, patting himself down. Of course _today_ is the day he only has cigarettes on hand.

He pushes away from the bench and strides towards the house. The place where his parents live. Or one parent lives. He stands on the porch and feels panic start to fill his legs, from toes on upward, and he knocks as hard and fast as he can before the fear paralyzes him completely. Only after he knocks does he think, _What if the kid is adopted and they don’t know anything about mom and dad?_

The door opens and it’s not his parents. But it is a ghost, and she looks… Like she’s seeing a ghost, herself.

“How did you find this place,” Juniper says. And it _is_ her. She’s got heavy makeup on to cover up the tattoos, and her hair is in curls, but it’s the color it used to be. It’s her heart shaped face, her big dumb blue eyes.

Reno doesn’t even hear her at first. He’s definitely frozen in place now, his hand falling from its position from where he had knocked. “Junie,” he whispers. His head hurts. It’s foggy. She’s in a baggy sweater, but the collar is tight like a turtle neck and covers up to almost her chin.

Her eyes grow impossibly wider, and then she moves to slam the door shut. Reno is just quick enough to lock his foot in the door. “Junie, please,” he repeats. He can’t feel the door on his foot. He can’t feel anything other than a cold blanket of confusion pulling him down. “What happened? How did…?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she says, and her voice is hissed so tightly he almost believes her. “But I do know that I don’t want anything to do with your gang bullshit ever again. You stay away from this place and my son. I never want to see you here again. You hear me? You stay the _fuck_ away from here.”

Her words don’t feel real, because she can’t be real either. “Junie,” he says again, his voice soft and broken. “I thought you were dead. I saw you. I saw…” Reno’s mind flashes with panic and images he hasn’t thought of in a decade. He’s queasy.

“ _You_ caused that,” she says, and Reno feels like he’s been shot. He takes a stumbling step backward. She doesn’t say anything else. She slams the door and it rattles every bone in his body. Heavy curtains fall over the broken shades, cutting off any further view within.

His sister is alive. Has been alive. And she doesn’t want to see him.

Somehow, he doesn’t crumple on her doorstep. He steps off the property, repelled as if by a curse. His foot pulses with something like hurt, but now the confusion has been replaced by a bigger, darker feeling. Like he’s being crushed.

_Get some fucking help before you really hurt yourself._

Reno looks around blearily and realizes his vision is cloudy from tears. Like a worthless child. He doesn’t understand why there’s tears in his eyes. Hell, he’s still trying to process the fact that his sister, who he cared about more than anyone else in the world, didn’t die under his boss’s hand a decade ago.

And that she blames him for it.

The scarring must have been bad to wear a sweater like that. To cover the wounds where they’d slit her neck.

His throbbing feet take him away. Somewhere. The first place he sees with a neon sign in a window. He buys the cheapest bottle of unopen booze and curls up into a booth with it.

He has done nothing but cause suffering for everyone around him. Hell, he even cheated his therapist out of work the first time he met him. Reno can’t even get basic menial shit right. He didn’t even go back to check on his sister. He didn’t ask to see her body. He just…he’d left. He fled.

And then when shit started getting bad with Rude, he’d just exploded on him and told him to get fucked. He’d never made Rude so damn mad before. All he could do was make people furious or depressed.

The alcohol tastes like nothing. The more he drinks the worse he feels. The harder it is to stop thinking about what a fuck up he is. He was probably such an awful kid that his parents started taking drugs because of him. He was the cause of all his problems, and everyone else’s.

He cries when he finishes the bottle, head in his forehead while his shoulders shake. Noiseless tears. Barely a sniffle. Just an open mouth and hot, uncomfortable pain twisting tighter and tighter in his chest.

Then he orders a second bottle and still can’t forget.

* * *

Rude is still mad at Reno.

They fought two days ago and it’s been deeply unpleasant to sit next to him at work. He doesn’t want to look at him, but he also doesn’t want to sit and be mad at him. It’s exhausting. Their jobs are taxing enough, dealing with this interpersonal drama is not helping.

But now it’s 11 AM and Reno has still not shown up to work.

Reno left early the day before, and Rude knew it was for therapy. Rude had been hoping it would help their own situation. Have his therapist talk him down from this asinine self harm.

But it’s late morning and not only is Reno not at work, but he hasn’t sent in a text message. He’s not answering Rude’s calls. Worse, it’s just going straight to voicemail.

Tseng doesn’t even look up when he says, “Find him.” So Rude goes to Reno’s apartment and picks the lock, but nobody’s home. There’s more beer cans than he expected. Knowing he’s been fading into alcoholism lately isn’t helping the whole ‘Reno is self destructing and there’s nothing I can do’ feeling that has taken roost in Rude’s mind.

He checks out the bars they usually frequented and finds nothing. The bartenders don’t remember him coming by, and they _always_ remember Reno.

A hysterical thought pops into his mind: Did he go back to the slums?

Did he go to Sector 4?

Did someone catch him stalking a kid?

Rude heads back to the Shinra building and requisitions a damn helicopter.

He flies to Sector 4 and then drops below plate. There are only so many landing pads in the slums, so he finds one close to the train station and has third class SOLDIERs guard it for him. He doesn’t even know what to look for. He doesn’t know where the kid lived. But he supposes he can ask around. That’s one of Reno’s best qualities: he’s unforgettable.

He wanders in and out of shops and restaurants and gets nowhere until he asks for where there might be more than one bar. Four streets down, he sees a slew of shoddy establishments with half-broken neon signs and empty casks as stools. The first place is uncooperative, but the second says that yes: a red haired drunk was there the night before, but he got kicked out before 10 PM for being disorderly.

Rude asked, “Where did he go?” But the bartender just shrugged. _“Beats me. Good riddance. Bought out all my cheapest booze. Nobody wants to pay an extra 10 gil for the other stuff._ ”

Rude looks around the bar for any sign of him, but there’s nothing. So instead he tries for another bar, and they saw him, too, but they wouldn’t serve him. He’d been barely able to string a sentence together, and worse, he’d pulled out his wallet and dropped all the cash out on the counter.

The bartender reached into their till and pulled it out: the thin suede wallet. Sure, it had Reno’s ID in it and probably too much paper gil, but Rude knew the wallet by heart. He’d bought the damn thing for Reno and he’d used it to death. “Can I take this to him?” Rude asks, and the bartender shakes her head.

“With this kinda cash? Sorry, pal,” she says. “Bring him back in, then I’ll give it to you.”

“He’s _missing_ ,” Rude says, his voice angrier than he would normally allow. “You’re worried about the cash?”

“You could just be a con man, sorry.”

Rude digs out his own wallet, the chains on his pants rustling. He pulls out two thousand gil and puts it on the counter. “Give me the damn wallet.”

The bartender looks uneasy, and then tucks the money away before handing Rude the wallet. Rude tucks it into his jacket, pushes up his shades, and stalks quietly out of the building.

_Where are you, you idiot?_

Rude’s face is bland as he walks around, but his mind is spinning a mile a minute. He can only hope that Reno’s somewhere here, stinking up the next bar he wanders into, and not in that house, strewn up by crazy people.

There’s another bar on the corner, with two enormous dumpsters out near the side. He’s about to go in when he catches the sight of a fingerless glove-covered hand lying next to a dumpster. Rude nearly skitters as he rushes over to see a man curled over on his side, wild red hair loose and dirty and tangled. He’s breathing raggedly. It’s Reno. The dumb bastard is alive. Though it looks like he threw up on himself.

“Hey,” Rude says. He’s mad. Fuming, even. He wants to kick Reno in the hand. In the ribs. Make him wake up. Realize what he’s done.

Rude is also relieved and the feeling of something bad happening to Reno had weighed so heavily on his chest, that now the relief is making him giddy, and the giddiness is what’s spurring on the rage. “ _Hey!_ ” he repeats, and this time, does toe Reno in the back.

Reno groans, or tries. His voice is crackling, like dried up food left out. He curls up on himself. “Go away,” he says. “Lemme die.”

Rude stares at him. How many times has he heard Reno say that exact thing as a joke? A hand wave and a cracked smile and then a lurch to throw up into a couch-side garbage can because of a night of debauched drinking?

“You’re not going to die,” Rude says, voice cool. Angry. “Though maybe you’ll wish you had.”

Reno’s body clenches, wrapping himself up further. His hand that had been sprawled out curls up under his torso. “It’s better,” Reno says. “If I die.”

Rude’s mouth opens and he doesn’t know how to respond to that. He’s mad that Reno’s just—acting up, and trying to get back at Rude for what? Being mad at him? So he’s wallowing? “Get up, asshole,” Rude says. “We’re going to work.”

Reno doesn’t move. Rude’s anger flares up and he ducks down sharply to yank Reno over by the shoulder. He’s tired of picking up Reno’s broken toys like this. Only Reno moves like a rag doll, and his eyes are open, and it’s like there’s nobody home. Rude drops down to a knee. “Reno?” he asks quietly, and Reno’s eyes are bloodshot and dull. He won’t look at him. Reno is very good at looking anywhere else. Even when Rude’s face is right in front of his, it’s like he’s looking through Rude.

“It’s better if I die,” Reno says again. His mouth goes a little slack. “You deserve a good partner.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Rude says, surprising himself. He’s never seen that look on Reno’s face. He’s never heard that tone of voice. It’s hopeless. It scares the shit out of him.

“Make me,” Reno says, and half his mouth lolls into an unpleasant facsimile of a smile. “Shut me up, before I ruin anybody else.”

Something’s deeply wrong. Rude’s heart is pounding hard in his chest. There’s genuine fear starting to choke up around his head. This isn’t something he knows how to handle. Reno looks like he’s made of wet paper: like if Rude shook him too hard, he really would snap his neck.

Instead Rude drops to his other knee and scoops Reno up until his partner is sitting up, if slumped. “What the hell happened, Reno?” he asks.

Reno doesn’t say anything. He just shakes, making it harder for Rude to hold him upright. Rude wants to be furious with him for fighting him every step of the way, except when he looks down he can see Reno is soundlessly weeping. His eyes and face are wet, and his body lurches with silent sobs, and Rude has never felt more hurt in his _life_.

“Hey,” he says, the polar opposite of what he had earlier. His arms tighten around Reno and he pulls him into a hug. “Hey, hey, stop. Let me take you home. Shh.”

Rude wishes he didn’t say anything at all, because Reno feels obligated to apologize, and when he manages out, “I’m s-s-sorry,” his voice is so broken and wracked with the heart ache that shakes him that Rude feels his own eyes mist up in sympathy.

“Come on,” Rude says quietly, and pulls Reno up into his arms. He pushes himself to standing. “I flew, alright? I’ll get you home. It’ll be fast.”

Reno doesn’t even clutch at him, though he presses his face into Rude’s suit. He barely hears Reno’s rumbled words: “Why bother?”

Rude feels fury fill his body. Who did this? Did he have to _kill_ a fucking therapist?

Reno doesn’t weigh much, but his rag doll posture makes him twice as heavy as Rude makes his way back to the train station and the helipad there. Reno has passed out by the time they arrive, and he carefully straps him in before ascending, leaving Sector 4 slums behind, and whoever made Reno go the extra step. Rude is furious. He’d rather Reno act out during a mission than just try to drink himself to death.

He lands the chopper and calls Tseng. He explains he found Reno in bad shape. It’s not just physical. He needs to take him home. Tseng is not pleased, but what’s he gonna do? Make a suicidal Turk get strapped down in Hojo’s lab?

At least it’s not far for Rude to head to their company apartments. He doesn’t take Reno back to his, where it’s filthy and buried in booze. Instead, he brings him to Rude’s home, where it’s dead quiet when he opens the door and carefully puts Reno down on his couch.

Reno just groans, burrows deeper into the couch. At least there’s not a knife buried in there, Rude thinks, and goes to draw a bath.

It gives him some time to think, to try and calm down. He needs to find out what happened. Did Reno simply just snap? Decide that Rude being mad at him was enough to get himself to just drink like this?

He shakes his head. He knows it’s not him. Reno’s not that weak. Not about Rude.

Rude pulls out some pain killers and clean towels, sets them on the sink, and then goes to wake Reno. His partner is still worse for wear, but in the quiet warmth of the apartment, he’s at least uncurled from his ‘dead bug’ position. “Reno,” Rude says softly. “Get up. Strip.”

“Why are you doing this?” Reno croaks.

“Because you stink,” Rude says, not letting his actual worry betray his tone. He pulls Reno up off the couch. “Come get into the bath.”

“Gonna let me drown?” Reno asks softly. It’s not teasing.

“Shut the fuck up about killing yourself,” Rude says. “I don’t like it.”

“Not like you like me anyway,” Reno says, and pulls himself away from Rude as he makes a limping bee-line for the bathroom.

Rude stares in disbelief. “You’re right, I hate your guts right now,” Rude says with painful honesty.

Reno pauses and then his head ducks as he steps into the bathroom. His clothes get shucked off and he lands with a noisy, awful splash into the bath. Rude tries not to wince as he thinks about half the water just exploding out of the tub. He stands in the doorway and watches as Reno lays in the tub, staring straight up at the ceiling.

“You gonna make me scrub you?” Rude says. The tone isn’t humorous. He’s seething and worried and confused. He doesn’t know how to project this discomfort. He sure as hell doesn’t want to take it out on Reno, but how else can he get to the bottom of this?

Reno’s head turns just a bit, and those eyes look so… dark. Lifeless, like a fish out of water. Rude hates it. “Fine,” Rude says, and shrugs out of his jacket. He’s rolling up his sleeves, kneeling on the wet floor next to the tub. “Asshole.”

Reno doesn’t seem to register that Rude has a wash cloth and a bar of soap in his hand until the rough surface scratches over Reno’s chest. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” Rude shouts, and then snaps his mouth shut. He lets out a long angry breath and works the rag over Reno’s dirty face, and then wipes it clean. He already looks better. “I’m taking care of you.”

A bit of light returns to Reno’s eyes, but it’s for the wrong reason. His eyes grow wide and wet. “Fuck,” he says, and tries to roll over in the tub to turn away from Rude. “Shit.”

“Knock it off,” Rude says, reaching to pull Reno back to him. The struggling has caused more water to splash out, and Rude’s white dress shirt is nearly see through. Rude wrangles Reno onto his back, and Reno writhes in discomfort.

“Stop it,” Reno sobs. “I’m a waste of time. Waste of a person. All I do is…ruin shit, okay?” He closes his eyes, veins straining in his neck. “You’re right that I’m just fucking around. I’m a shitty partner and I’m gonna get you killed. I don’t deserve—this. Whatever you’re fucking doing.” His eyes open again, and they’re the same dark, unhappy blue. Rude’s throat tightens. “Just stop it. Stop letting me disappoint you, Rude.”

“Didn’t I,” Rude starts, clearing his throat. “Tell you to shut the fuck up?”

Reno sobs again, but it’s mixed with a laugh of discomfort. “Didn’t I tell you to make me?” His hands dart out and snatch Rude’s; he places them on Reno’s neck, then, and stares up at Rude. “Do it, then.”

Rude has never been more angry that he doesn’t actually want to strangle someone. The anguish in Reno’s tone, the defeat in his body, is so upsetting that it’s curbing Rude’s fury. He doesn’t yank his hands away, though. He forces his hands to move around, one caressing the back of Reno’s neck, the other moving back to grab the forgotten rag next to Reno’s squirming ribs.

“You’re nuts,” Rude says, and his voice is strained.

Reno’s laugh is quiet and so unhappy, but he can’t help the noise from bubbling out. “I know,” he whispers. “I was seeing a guy about it.”

Rude stares down at him in disbelief. The asshole. The gall of him. The gallows humor never seems to go away, and it’s annoyingly contagious. He smiles despite himself as he runs the wash rag over Reno’s armpits and shoulders. “What happened with that, anyway?”

Reno is quiet for a moment, so Rude just continues to scrub him clean. Rude has worked his way down to Reno’s feet by the time he says, “I complained about you the whole time, got called a failure, and uh…”

“You’re not a failure,” Rude says. “An idiot, yes. The biggest. The biggest, loudest idiot in the city. But not a failure.”

“I went to the kid’s house,” Reno croaks.

Rude drops the bar of soap in the water and looks over at him. “Is that what all this is about?”

Reno can’t look at him any more, and presses his lips together. Rude pulls the plug on the bath and then stands, looking down at Reno’s trembling, naked form. “Well?”

Reno lies in the bath until all the water is gone, and then he sits up. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I know a thing or two about shitty parents, Reno,” Rude says softly, almost insulted. He throws the enormous white towel into the bath at him. “You can talk to me about this, you know.” He steps out of the bathroom, giving him the semblance of privacy.

“You ever been a shitty parent?” Reno asks after a moment.

Rude freezes. “So the kid’s yours…?”

“No,” Reno says. Rude peers back in to see Reno wrap the towel around his waist. “Nevermind. There’s too much you don’t know, and I… You don’t need…” He spreads his hands. “You’ve done too much for me already. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Reno,” Rude says, his voice almost a warning. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I should go,” Reno says, and Rude steps into the bathroom, both of his hands on Reno’s shoulders.

“You should go _to sleep_ ,” Rude says. “Go to my bed. Now.” Reno looks unhappy, but Rude just shakes his head. “If you care about me, do it.”

It’s a dirty trick, but it works. Reno slithers out of the bathroom and into Rude’s bedroom. He’s slept there before on occasion, when they’d had too much to drink. Nothing more had ever happened — it would be too messy.

Rude strips out of his wet clothes and dries off with another towel. He mops up all the watery mess and then makes his way back into his room. Reno is a lump under his soft black comforter. He pulls out some dry clothes and listens to Reno’s uneven breathing.

“Rude,” Reno says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Will you… Call my therapist?” he asks. He’s meek. “I…”

Rude only gets a few of his shirt buttons closed up. He blinks slowly. “Yes, but after you wake up. And eat. And talk to me.”

Reno lets out a shaky breath. “Do I have to?”

“You think this is easy for me, Reno?” Rude asks. “You think I wanted to hear you ask me to kill you today? Twice? That you don’t even wanna be my partner any more? And you won’t even tell me why?”

Reno’s voice is soft and hurt. It sounds the way Rude’s chest feels. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right. It’s not. Now get some sleep,” Rude says. “Asshole.”

He leaves the door open and makes himself lunch, but Rude can’t even make himself eat. Instead, he stares at the bedroom doorway and wonders what the hell he’s going to do with Reno.


	5. Broken Box

Rude wakes up with a crick in his neck. He can hear someone shuffling from bedroom to the bathroom, and he sighs. He keeps his eyes closed. He assumes Reno is just going to crawl back into bed when he finishes, and Rude feels strangely exhausted.

He’s surprised when a hand touches his head, and he can’t help but flinch. Reno’s fingers jerk away from him, and Rude tries not to beat himself up for spooking his partner.

“Damn,” Reno says softly, though his voice is toned with sly amusement, as it always is to cover up if anything’s wrong. “I must have really screwed up to be the one in your bed while you’re bent in half on the couch.”

Rude’s eyes flicker open, but he’s too sleepy to glare at him. He knows his gaze is tender, even if his voice is unamused. “Don’t lie to me and say you don’t remember anything.”

Reno’s wry expression melts into shame, and he sits back on his haunches, staring at his nails. “Sorry I keep fucking up,” he mumbles.

Rude had been simmering in anger for days — longer than that, since he’s been frustrated with Reno’s behavior for weeks — but seeing his partner so gaunt and sad has forced him to swallow the negativity. He pushes himself up to sitting; the dress shirt he’d put on earlier is piled up on the coffee table, so he’s only in sweats. He’s not self conscious around Reno. They’ve seen each other in every awful scenario. “C’mon,” he says, and puts a hand on Reno’s angular shoulder. “Let’s get breakfast.”

Reno’s eyes bore into his, like he can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “It’s like 5 PM.”

Rude rolls his eyes and stands. “You want waffles or not?”

Reno stands, and now Rude can see he’s wearing one of Rude’s t-shirts and the gym shorts he hasn’t pulled out in two years. It looks comfortable, and that brings Rude a tiny flutter of _something_ that Reno just helped himself. “Yeah, okay,” Reno says, still embarrassed. “You got sausage, too?”

Rude’s expression is mild, barely there, but the soft smile is practically indulgent with how awful things had been between them. “Yeah.”

They work in the kitchen together. The sun is going down outside, but Reno puts on a pot of coffee and heats up Rude’s waffle iron. Rude makes batter and fries up sausages. When Rude pours the first portion of batter into the waffle iron, he finally asks: “You gonna tell me what happened yet?”

“Rude…” Reno pours himself a cup of coffee and drinks it black. He grimaces at the burning hot liquid on his tongue. “Do you really wanna hear my fucked up life story?”

Rude folds his arms. “Yes,” he says plainly. “Make me a coffee, too.”

Reno’s shoulders twitch in a half laugh, the sound catching on his teeth. He puts his own mug down to pull out another, and “ruins it” with the cream and sugar Rude likes. Then he passes it over and can’t help but touch Rude’s fingers as he places it in his hands.

“My parents were junkies,” Reno says, and then gets his coffee. “That’s the part you knew.”

“And you were in a gang,” Rude adds. “Though I’d be stupid to not recognize the old Sahagin Princes marks.”

“Wasn’t just me. Was… My sister too.” Reno winces, like he’s about to hear Rude explode on him: _you had a sister and never told me? Some partner you are!_

But Rude just waits and watches. He sips the coffee slowly, savors the way it tastes, the way Reno made it for him.

Reno lets out a shaky breath. “That’s how we took care of ourselves. She’s barely a year or two younger than me but I still felt like her guardian, y’know? Surrogate dad. Had to keep her safe and fed and away from the warp-sucking assholes that were my parents. So I brought her into the new family, and shit was fine, until…” Reno’s expression grows distant. “Until it wasn’t.”

Rude forces himself to not interrupt, instead spinning around to turn the waffle iron.

“They were teaching me a lesson. I fucked with the wrong guy, and they normally took it out on me, yo. That’s why I’m so good at takin’ hits.” Reno makes a self-deprecating sound that mostly comes across as a choke. “And I was used to that. Don’t worry if somethin’ bad happens, cause it’ll come back on me. Not… Anybody else.”

Rude finally looks at him, and it’s a painfully familiar scenario. Reno can’t make eye contact. His fingers are shaking on the mug, and Rude steps up to him to take it from his hands. He doesn’t say anything, just places it back on the counter.

Reno bites his lip. “Anyway, they made me watch. It was… It was fast. She didn’t even…” Reno’s eyes well up. “She put on a brave face and didn’t make a sound,” he says, his voice breaking. His hands land on the counter. He sucks air in through his teeth. “They only made me watch long enough to see the blood splatter. Then they kicked me the fuck out. I’d just watched them kill her and I… Fuck. I didn’t even see them kill her. They must have cast magic on her or dunked her head in an Elixir or something. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Reno,” Rude says, closer to him than before. He puts a hand over one of Reno’s that’s curled over the edge of the counter. His hands are painfully, tensely white. “What do you mean?”

“Ten years ago, I watched them kill her, and I was so scared I ran away. Ended up in Veld’s sights soon after that.” Reno looks over his shoulder, and his eyes are deeply sad, but at least they aren’t _empty_. “And yesterday, I opened that fuckin’ door, and she was there. Alive. In a fucking… Turtleneck.”

Rude stares at him in disbelief. “ _What?_ ”

“She knew who I was. Obviously, look at my stupid ass,” Reno says, laughs without humor and hangs his head. “Fuck.”

“What did she say?” Rude asks, even though he knows he doesn’t want to hear it.

“She blamed me for it,” Reno says flatly. He reaches for his coffee and takes a long, unhappy slurp. “Can I dump whiskey in this?”

“No more booze.” He lets go of Reno’s hand to return to the stove. He opens the waffle iron to get it out before it burns, and pours in another one. “She blamed you for… getting her killed?”

“She’s not wrong,” Reno says, a hysterical noise bubbling out of him. “She told me to get away. Never show up again. Stay away.” The noise turns into bitter laughter. “She’s right, obviously. About all of it. All I did was make shit worse, so why would my showing up be any good now?”

Rude finally just steps up behind Reno and wraps his arms around him. It’s not super comforting for either of them, at first. It’s tight. Reno’s shaking like a junky himself.

“Get off,” Reno says.

“That shit wasn’t your fault,” Rude says, and holds him tighter.

“It literally was. If I hadn’t—”

“Did you put the knife on her throat?”

Reno trembles harder. His voice is soft. “No.”

“You got dealt a shit hand and you were lucky to survive. How old were you, for fuck’s sake?”

Reno swallows, and his throat clicks. “Sixteen.”

“You were a god damn baby,” Rude says, and Reno goes slack in his arms. The embrace softens enough that Reno is able to turn around in it, and surprises Rude by pressing into the hug. His arms hang low around Rude’s bare waist, and it’s… Nice. Warm.

“I’m sorry,” Reno says. He’s hiding his face in Rude’s chest, but Rude can feel the wetness from his eyes on his skin. “About all the…”

“Don’t.” Rude just strokes his broad hands over Reno’s back. They’re quiet for a few minutes, until Rude has to pull back away from Reno. He purposefully doesn’t look directly at Reno’s bloodshot eyes. “Don’t wanna burn the waffles,” Rude adds, and goes back to the stove.

He hears Reno sniff behind him, probably wipe his eyes off on bony wrists. Rude plates up the two enormous waffles and three sausages with a bottle of syrup, and gives them to Reno. “Eat.”

Reno only looks a little green, but takes the plate and sits down to eat.

“You’re stuck with me, by the way,” Rude says as he fills the waffle iron again.

Reno’s mouth is full of syrup. “Mm?”

“No one’s gonna get reassigned,” Rude fills in, gazing at the steam rising from the iron. “And I’m not gonna let you die.” The words sound more strained than anything else Rude has said since they woke up.

Reno pushes a chunk of waffle around on the plate. It skates through the maple syrup in figure eights. “Doesn’t seem smart.”

“Uh huh,” Rude says. “Neither of us is, until we’re together.”

Reno puts the waffle in his mouth. He clearly doesn’t believe Rude for a second, but it’s a comforting quiet.

Rude only gives himself one waffle and loads his plate with the rest of the sausages. He sits next to Reno and they don’t talk. They eat, and their forks clink, and the mugs drag on the table, and their knees occasionally brush together until they settle into just touching.

Reno is clearly feeling apologetic or grateful, since he stands up first to gather their plates and washes them. Rude watches him with soft eyes. “So what’s this about your therapist calling you a failure?” he says, and he’s lucky when Reno drops the plate, it’s only an inch down on the steel sink.

“Shit. Have you called him yet?” Reno asks.

Rude stares at his back. “Answer me.”

“He… He didn’t. Not so much. I mean. He kind of…” Reno hunches forward, finishes scrubbing the sticky syrup from the plates, and then turns. His expression is bashful. Like a kid caught in a lie. “He called me out and I freaked the fuck out on him.”

Rude raises an eyebrow at him, and Rude swears he can see Reno’s cheeks get pink, the freckles standing out more when he blushes. “That’s a familiar sounding scenario.”

“He asked me what you could do,” Reno says voicelessly, staring at the floor, “to make this easier on me. And I said for you to … Trust me. For you to shut up.” He folds his arms, self conscious. “And then he asked me what I could do for you, and I said the only reason I was even talking to the shrink was because of you. That I’d… Done enough for your sake.”

Rude watches him curiously. The words are hurtful, yet he can tell the way Reno’s saying them that he’s embarrassed by them.

“He told me I was worried about… Fucking up. Letting you get hurt. And to me, that sounded like him calling me a failure.” He finally looks up at Rude and his eyes are disarmingly sad. “He didn’t… Call me anything, I just. I took it that way.” He bites his lip, scoffing. “Shit, I’m stupid.”

“Nobody’s going to argue with you on that,” Rude says with tender amusement, and then stands. “You gonna call him?”

Reno fidgets. “Would um… Would you?”

Rude’s eyebrow goes up again. “Why?”

“It’s. His number’s in my phone. I just… I really fuckin freaked out on him, and it was the last session and I was only there for like twenty minutes, and um…”

“You already went through all this shit last night and thismorning and you can’t handle talking to him,” Rude fills in.

Reno’s entire body sags in relief. “Yeah.”

Rude nods. “Fine. Go set up a movie. And bring me your phone.” He waits for Reno to bring the phone from his pile of clothes on the bathroom floor, and then watches in surprise as his partner settles back into the bedroom. Rude does have a TV mounted there — frequent insomnia and nightmares is a part of the job, and that static of quiet sitcoms at 3 AM helps — but he expected Reno to settle into the living room.

Rude opens the phone and scrolls through the contacts. Nothing under ‘T’ for Therapist, but he does see ‘Shrink’. He should ask, but instead he just dials it.

“Reno?” a soothing voice answers.

* * *

Reeve is just about to lock up for the evening when his cell lights up. It’s the Turk. It’s Reno. He blinks in shock and drops his files back on his coffee table before he answers in surprised relief. “Reno?”

“You his therapist?” a deep voice rumbles at him, and Reeve has to catch himself. The sound alone is enough to course straight through his body. Sweet moggy breakfast.

“Uh!” Reeve clears his throat and forces his tone into seriousness. “Yes. This is Dr. Reeve Tuesti.”

“Reno ran into some troubles yesterday,” the other man replies. “He’s physically and emotionally exhausted, but it sounds like he wants to speak with you again.”

Reeve feels his heart drop into his stomach. “Titan’s bones,” he swears under his breath. “I knew I shouldn’t have let him go in such an agitated state— Is he? Is he alright?”

The voice rumbles affirmatively. “He’s okay. He’s been better.”

“Pardon my asking,” Reeve starts, and leans against the door. “Are you—is this… His partner?”

“Mm,” Rude replies.

“Thank Mog,” Reeve says. “Listen, I can open up an appointment tomorrow afternoon — is that soon enough?” He listens to Rude’s voice become slightly distant, like he’s half-covering the phone to ask a question. He can almost hear Reno’s nasally voice, and it warms up his heart. He had more worries for the Turk than he’d realized.

“I’ll drag him there myself,” Rude says, and Reeve is glad no one is around to see him flush down to the collar of his shirt.

“I’ll text over the details. And… I appreciate your dedication,” Reeve says. “I only want the best for him, believe me. ”

“Mm,” Rude says. “Me too.” And then the line goes dead, and Reeve is able to exhale.

How did Turks manage to be so utterly terrifying _and_ sexy?

* * *

Rude hangs up the phone and watches Reno settle into his bed. He’s flicking through an array of options on the television, one arm wrapped securely around a pillow. Rude feels a rush of affection at the sight. Reno with his guard down is rare, and Rude would be lying if he said he didn’t want to wrap his arms around the man when he was like this.

“Tomorrow afternoon, then,” Rude says. He tosses Reno’s PHS back to him, even as it lights up with a text message from the therapist. “I’m calling you out tomorrow.”

Reno looks up indignantly. “Ah, come on. I can go to work. I already missed today—”

“Over my dead body,” Rude says, and it’s chillingly blunt. Reno looks rattled, and Rude regrets his phrasing. “Ah…sorry.”

“Fine. But you better gimme your day’s pay for it,” Reno says, and selects a movie. “You gonna come watch or what?”

Rude blinks. He did not agree to the payment, but he was too caught off guard. “Uh… I mean…”

“You could bring us beers?” Reno sing-songs.

Rude rolls his eyes, and goes to pull a t-shirt on. “What’d I say about booze?” he says, and then surprises himself by crawling into the bed next to Reno. They settle back against Rude’s tufted headboard.

“You seen anything from this franchise?” Reno asks as the credits open.

Rude shakes his head ‘no’ with a grunt. He has, but he knows this will give an excuse for Reno to ramble, and he does. When a new character comes on the screen, Reno points them out, says their name, talks about their plot points. He cracks soft jokes. He relaxes against Rude’s side until their shoulders rest comfortably against one another. The movie isn’t bad, but Rude is struggling to focus on anything other than Reno’s gestures, his voice, his words.

He’s listening for breaking points. He wants to keep Reno distracted and happy. It’s not easy, because Rude is full of his own unaddressed turmoil. Reno put him through hell and instead he’s stuck providing comfort instead of dealing with the fact that his own partner put his hands on his throat.

“Na, Rude?” Reno asks, and Rude shakes his head. He’s completely missed whatever it was Reno was talking about. He stares at the TV and realizes the ending credits are rolling.

“I said, you wanna watch the next one?” Reno turns to him, his eyes big and blue and open, and Rude feels unfamiliar discomfort tighten in his chest.

“Sure,” he says. “You gonna talk all through this one, too?”

Reno grins at him, and the cheeky expression makes Rude feel warm under the collar. “You want me to?”

“…maybe,” Rude says. He doesn’t really know what he wants. He wants his _own_ mind to stop spinning up new uncomfortable feelings and information. Hell, he wants to drop everything and go destroy a punching bag for an hour, but instead he’s here, with fists clenched, watching generic super hero movies with his partner.

He doesn’t realize how tight his fingers were until Reno’s hand lands on his. “Hey. You good, partner?” Reno asks.

Rude stares at Reno’s hand. Tan. Sweet. So different from how white and bony it had been clutched on the kitchen counter top. Rude nods. “Yeah,” he says voicelessly, and then hums. “I’m good.” Reno’s thumb slides over Rude’s knuckles and his fingers loosen. Maybe he _is_ good. It doesn’t feel like a lie, not right now.

Half way into the third movie, Reno’s head falls onto his shoulder. He’s out like a light, which surprises Rude, with how much he’d slept already. He doesn’t even smell like he normally does; he was dunked in Rude’s tub and slept in Rude’s bed and is wearing Rude’s clothes. It’s unsettling in a way that makes him, strangely, feel vulnerable. He doesn’t know if he likes it. But when he lets his own head rest against Reno’s, he does like that. He turns the movie down so that its dialogue and explosions turn into that 3 AM-style white noise.

When he wakes up, he’s flat in the bed, and Reno is curled up in one of his arms. The TV is off. Reno clearly woke up, adjusted them, and went back to sleep.

Rude’s fingers tighten on Reno’s shoulder, and he’s asleep again in minutes.


End file.
